Vault of the Ages

by Poul Anderson

  Why did he suffer a useless confinement and visit an unnecessary pain on those who loved him? Was he becoming another Donn, so sternly devoted to the Tribe that he had no time or mercy for the mere tribespeople?

  Was he right, even? Who was he to challenge laws made centuries before bis birth? Was he so much wiser than his elders that he could tell them what was truth?

  Or even if he was right, even if the old powers could again be given to the world—was that for the best? How did he know that the ancients had been happy? How did he know that a rebuilding would not start anew the terrible old cycle of wars and cruelty and woe, until the world crashed in a second Doom?

  Carl tried to shake the doubts out of his tormented mind, but they returned to plague him, little formless devils mocking and gibbering in the depths of his brain. He muttered wearily and wondered how late in the night it was.

  There came a sudden, scuffing noise outside the door. A voice growled something, metal clinked faintly, feet slid over the packed dirt—Carl leaped from rest, every nerve drawn wire-taut, and strained against the solid bulk of the door.

  “Carl!” The whisper drifted through, dim and unrecognizable.

  “Carl, wake up!”

  “I’m here,” he gasped. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Owl. Stand by. We’re going to break in.”

  Carl drew a shuddering breath. “What is this—”

  “Not so loud! You’ll wake the other prisoners. All right, Sam!”

  A hammer rang on iron, muffled by a fold of cloth laid between. Once, twice, thrice, and then the clumsy padlock jingled to ruin and the door creaked open.

  The figures of Carl’s rescuers were vague shadows in the hall. There were four, armed and armored, peering nervously out the jail entrance into the silent street. Owl stepped forth. He bore equipment in his hands—helmet, breastplate, shield, knife and sword—which he gave into Carl’s amazed grasp. “Get this on quick,” he muttered.

  “But—but—”

  “It’s a rescue. Don’t you see? Twenty of us are here to get you out and follow you to the City. Now fast!”

  For a moment longer Carl stood unmoving, and all his doubts rose to overwhelm him. Then decision came and suddenly he was swift and cool, throwing on his clothes, buckling the armor over them, no thought save the tremendous will to freedom.

  Yes, one—the gentle old couple who guarded the jail and had looked after him—”What about the guard here and his wife?”

  “They’re all right. We went into their bedroom, bound and gagged them, that’s all. They’ll be found in the morning. But we can’t rouse the others held in here or they’ll make a racket that’ll bring the night watch down on us like a star falling. All set? Let’s go, then.”

  They slipped out of the corridor and the entrance, into the street. Houses loomed tall on either hand, shadowing, turning the narrow way into a river of darkness. A cat squalled from a roof, a dog barked answer, a man shouted something angry out of an upper window, the leather of the fugitives squeaked and the metal rang faintly—the night seemed alive with noise, and Carl started at every sound.

  He had time for a brief regret. If they were caught trying to escape, it would go harder with his rescuers than with him; if they were caught by the Lann, it would most likely mean death for all; if they reached the City and failed to produce the promised magic, they would forever be marked traitors and outlaws. In any case, it would be still another cruel blow to the many that Ralph and John had endured.

  His will grew tight again. This was no age for weaklings. You had to do whatever seemed best, without letting gods or men or the lower devils deter you.

  The measured tramping of feet came nearer. They crouched into a narrow alley and watched the town guard go by, armored guards with axes on their shoulders. For a moment, it seemed as if the relentless march would go through their very hiding place, but the guards turned sharply and went on down the street.

  Farther along, winding between the tents of refugees, the little band saw two men approaching. At Carl’s hurried command, they fell into formation and moved steadily forward. The strangers fled. They must have been out to do a little thieving, and had taken the escaping ones for the watch.

  Now softly, softly, glide between walls up to the great stockade, hug its shadow and slip along, slip along…

  Two ladders seemed to spring out of darkness. Tom and Ezzef stood by them with drawn swords. “There you are,” whispered the young guard. “All right, Carl. The rest have gone ahead. We go by twos, up the ladders, jump to the ground outside, and then the gods get us through the enemy camp. Meet at dawn by the swimming hole in old Rogga’s woods. After that, you’re the leader.”

  Carl nodded and went softly up the rungs, holding his body close to the ladder. At the top he hesitated, glancing at the watchtowers looming against the sky. It was a cloudy, dark night, but even so the guards would be alert— Nothing to do but jump!

  He sprang, relaxing his body and falling twenty feet with trained ease. He landed in one of the hedges clustered below the walls, feeling branches rake him, more concerned with the noise of his armor. But that wasn’t much. The crackling twigs were louder, and he lay stiff for a moment, waiting for a challenge.

  No answer, no sound. The fortress stood black and massive above him, crouched into itself, waiting for an unknown doom. Owl joined him and the two pairs of eyes turned to the scattered red flicker of enemy fires, half a mile away.

  “Let’s go,” said Carl at last.

  He drew his mantle up to cover the sheen of helmet and breastplate, and loped cautiously toward the besieging camp, weaving from tree to bush to thicket, waiting tense at every sound that drifted from the foe. Discovery meant flashing swords and red death. They had forfeited the help of Dalestown. Truly, thought Carl, his was a friendless gang and every man’s hand was against it. Briefly, he wondered if the great pioneers who had built the lost civilization had been as lonely in their day.

  Closer, closer. Carl lay prone behind a bush and looked slit-eyed at the ring he had to cross. Some twenty yards off on either side, a dying campfire cast its dull light on sleeping men, stacked weapons, an occasional tent; between was a lane of darkness. Two fires down, several Lann were still sitting up, drinking wine robbed from some Dale house; their bawling songs came vaguely upwind. A cow taken for butchering lowed in the night. Somewhere a horse whinnied.

  “Let’s go,” hissed the boy again.

  He wormed a slow way from behind the shrub, through the trampled grass, between the fires. Often he halted, heart a thunder, so that anyone who had chanced to see a movement would suppose it was wind rippling the grass. He was almost through the barrier when he heard the squeak of boots.

  One of the Lann who had been drinking was going back to his own campfire to sleep. He staggered a little. Glancing up, Carl saw a dim red sheen of light on the grinning face. But he lurched away, and Carl’s breath whistled out between his clenched teeth.

  So far, so good. Now came the hard part.

  Chapter 16

  DEFIANCE OF THE GODS

  Four days later, in the middle of morning, Carl looked again on the City. It had been a hard trek on foot which he and his little band had made. They went across country, avoiding the roads which were still used by occasional marauding northerners, but even so they had often had to conceal themselves as a troop of Lann rode by. The countryside had been green and quiet for the most part; houses still stood and the burned, gutted shells Carl had expected were actually few. After all, the barbarians would not ruin too many of the homes they expected to occupy themselves. But Chief Raymon had his men out scouring the Dales to find livestock and stored grain to feed the besieging army.

  Now and then Carl’s force encountered people of their own tribe. Some had even stayed in their houses, hoping for a miracle before the terrible plunderers should come to them. Most wandered gypsy-like, gleaning what food they could, hiding by day and traveling by night. Many, Carl learned, had retr
eated into the great forests, taking up a hunter’s existence. They were not panicky, but there was a look of misery about them, the look of the defeated and uprooted, which wrenched the boy’s heart.

  His men had of necessity turned thieves themselves, stealing whatever grain or animals they had been able to find. But otherwise it would have gone to the Lann, and Carl promised himself to repay such of the owners as he could identify later. If he lived!

  Now he stood with his men crowding behind him, looking past the wilderness of the outer City to the distantly gleaming towers.

  Ezzef’s awed whisper came to his ears: “It’s—big, isn’t it?”

  “And so still.” Sam the Strong had never quailed before danger he could see and fight, but now he clutched a rabbit’s foot tightly. “But it seems to be watching. Are you sure it’s safe, Carl?”

  “It hasn’t killed me yet,” snapped the boy.

  “What do we do now?” asked Nicky. It was a strange feeling, having these warriors, most of them some years older than the Chief’s son, turning to him for guidance—a strange and lonely feeling. Carl was glad that to Tom and Owl he was still only a friend.

  “We’ll go straight to the witch-folk,” he decided. “Might as well have it out with them now. Come on— and be careful.”

  They went down the streets in a tight square. The early sun blinked off their drawn weapons.

  Walls closed in on either hand, high and silent. Some of the Dalesmen looked nervously about, feeling that a trap was closing on them.

  “It’s nothing to fear,” said Carl. His voice came oddly flat in that immense quiet. “Just brick and stone and metal and broken glass. Even the machines in the vault are dead until a man uses them.”

  On and on. The most ruinous sections fell behind. The buildings grew taller, lifting magnificently toward a smiling heaven. Now and then a faint noise would make men start, but it was only a rat or a gopher or a wheeling bird. Until—

  The arrow whizzed from above and thunked quivering into Tom’s buUhide shield. Carl yelled an order, and the Dalesmen sprang into a tight-bunched knot of warriors, holding their shields in front of them, peering over the tops. Four witch-men leaned out of a gaping third-story window and shot. Somewhere else a horn screamed, and a drum began to thutter.

  “Get away—on the double!” shouted Carl.

  Arrows sleeted after them as the invaders trotted down the street. The rearward men ran backward, shields aloft to protect the band. Shafts thudded home, caught in the toughened leather, rattling off helmets, now and then grazing a leg or an arm. But these were not from the hundred-pound longbows of the Dales, whose missiles could drive through an iron corselet— the witches pulled a feeble bow, and before long Carl’s party was out of range.

  Then they faced forward and swung down the resounding way, hot with anger. The old skyscrapers loomed near, and the frantic drums rolled loud. A woman ran screeching from the warriors’ path. A dog yelped on their heels.

  They burst into the main section and were confronted by the men of the City. The witches had grabbed weapons and gathered in a harried force. Even now, others were racing from shops and homes and gardens to join their fellows. The Dalesmen reformed their square and looked boldly at the spears slanting toward them. They were outnumbered five or six to one, but they had armor and they were trained and the purpose within them was insuperable.

  “Where is Ronwy?” said Carl, speaking to an old man in a splendid cloak who seemed to be the leader. “I want to speak to your Chief.”

  “Ronwy is not our Chief,” answered the witch sullenly.

  His followers stirred behind him, lips tightened by fear and hate.

  It was like a knife stabbing Carl’s heart. “Ronwy is—dead?” he gasped.

  “He has angered the gods. His witchcraft brought fire and thunder and the devils of Atmik to earth. He cannot be our Chief. We came back after the Lann were gone and imprisoned him.”

  “Ronwy lives!” Relief left Carl feeling weak.

  “I know you,” said the witch-leader. “You are the ill-omened one who first came here and brought all this woe on us. I forbid you the City. Go, before we kill all of you.”

  Carl shook his head. “No,” he said. “We have come to free Ronwy and open the time vault. Stop us if you dare.”

  “We are more than you,” blustered the witch-man. “Many, many more. You can kill some of us, perhaps, but in the end we’ll cut you down.”

  “Go ahead, then!” Carl stepped slowly forward, sword raised, glaring from behind his shield. “Who’ll be the first to die?”

  His followers pressed behind him, locking their shields together, a walking wall which bristled with sharp-edged metal. The disorderly ranks of the witch-men stirred, muttering and backing up before that grim advance.

  “This is our home!” The old witch-chief’s voice was almost a sob. “You’ve no right—”

  “We don’t mean to violate your homes,” said Carl. “We won’t enter anyone’s shop or dwelling. But the time vault is not yours. It belongs to all the world, and we claim it for the world.”

  “Kill them!” screamed the leader.

  Weapons clashed and rattled, but no one stepped from the milling crowd, Carl grinned savagely and went on walking toward his opponents.

  “We’ll go to the Lann!” babbled the witch-chief. “We’ll get them to help us drive you out!”

  “All right, boys,” said Carl. “Scatter them.”

  The Dalesmen let out a spine-shivering yell and broke into a crashing, jingling trot. Swords and axes were aloft, pikes slanted forward, arrows fitted to tensed bowstrings. They were only twenty, but at sight of that band, the witches broke. They stumbled away, some running, some slinking and snarling, but none dared to stand and fight.

  Carl’s hard-held breath whistled out in a great sigh of relief. He had not been too afraid of the City men— perhaps they could have slain all his band, perhaps not—but the thought of killing men who fought for their own homes had been painful. Praise all gods, the witches had been bluffed!

  He led the way to the well-remembered prison. The dwellers streamed away on either side, yelling and chattering. By the time Carl reached the jail, there was no sign of them. Ronwy was straining against the bars. He reached through to take Carl’s hands, and tears ran down his faded cheeks. “Praise all powers,” he choked. “You’ve come, my son, you’ve come. Oh, praises be!”

  “You haven’t been hurt, sir?” asked Carl anxiously.

  “No, no. They treated me well enough—afraid of my magic, I suppose. What brings you here again, Carl? What has happened? Fugitives passing by said the Lann were at Dalestown, and my heart grew sick within me.”

  Carl told the story as Sam and Ezzef broke open the door. When Ronwy emerged, he was trembling and leaned heavily on Tom’s arm. “Outlawed?” he moaned. “Outcast from all tribes? Oh, this is bad, this is cruel!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” lied Carl wearily. He was shocked to see how Ronwy had aged in these few days. But then, the old man had seen all he had striven for in his long life apparently brought to ruin. New hope should mean new life for him. “Now, my teacher, we are free to do as we have dreamed.”

  “I wonder. I wonder.” Ronwy stroked his beard with thin, shaking fingers. “This is a great and terrible thing you have taken on yourself, and I am not one of the old scientists. I am only one who has read, and imagined too much—become half a ghost myself in this ghostly place. We can try, yes, try our best—but time is short if we are to save the Dales, and I know so little…”

  “We’ll do it!” Carl’s defiance rang out with a hopefulness he did not feel. “But come, let us rest you first, sir. They went to Ronwy’s home, closed and dusty since his imprisonment. The old man found wine and food, and Owl, who claimed to be a master cook, prepared a meal. That was cheering and strengthening to all, and they re-entered the street with higher hearts. A strange procession met them, loaded wagons rumbling down the streets, armed men walking, wom
en and children wailing their fright and sorrow. “What is this?” cried Ronwy.

  “What are you doing?”

  His rival chief stopped and looked at him with hatred. “Your madness will bring the wrath of the gods down on the City,” he answered. “We are leaving while there is still time.”

  “Leaving—but where will you go?”

  “We will go to the Lann at Dalestown. If the gods do not smite you first, the Lann will avenge us.”

  “There will be no harm done,” protested Ronwy.

  “You were warned the last time. Thunder and lightning spoke, devils howled in the vault, and still your pride has not bent.” The other old witch-man shook his head. “Perhaps the gods will not strike you even now. Perhaps they are so angered they do not care what ruin you bring on the world. But the Lann will care. They will help us.”

  “Hah!” muttered Owl. “The Lann are more scared of this place than you are.”

  “I don’t know,” said Tom worriedly. “Lenard, at least, fears nothing, and he may be able to break taboo with some of his men.”

  “Well, we can’t stop the witches from going,” answered Carl. “They are desperate enough to fight us and overwhelm us, or at least cut a way through to safety, if we try. We’ll just have to hope they don’t succeed with the Lann.”

  He and his men stood by Ronwy’s door and watched the dwellers go past. Many cursed the invaders as they went by, and Ronwy bowed his head in grief.

  “What have I done?” he whispered. “These are my people. What have I done to them?”

  “Nothing, sir,” said Carl as reassuringly as he could. “It’s only their own ignorance driving them to this. And they’ll come to no harm. Even the Lann have no reason to injure them, especially when they come as allies.”

  “But they curse me! They—hate me!”

  “I’ve made myself an outcast from my own kind,” answered Carl with pain. “The way of the pioneer is lonely. But they’ll all bless us if we succeed. And if we don’t—why, then nothing matters, I suppose.”